


I'll Be the Sailor, You Be the Lighthouse

by ArwenLalaith



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: And Lots of It, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-11 16:50:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLalaith/pseuds/ArwenLalaith
Summary: Grief is like the ocean; it comes in waves, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim...Emily Prentiss is waiting for someone to throw her a life raft.





	1. Chapter 1

Ian emerged from the en-suite bathroom ready for his flight to Boston. He crossed to the farther side of the bed where his wife still lay, clutching the covers to her chest like they were protecting her, despite the fact that it was past noon.

"Emily, Love, are you going to get out of bed today? I have to go to Boston for work – you're welcome to come with me, if you feel so inclined."

She gave an indistinct noise in response and burrowed further under the quilt.

"Emily, it's been a month already…you've barely gotten out of bed for two weeks. I know it's been a very difficult time dealing with such a traumatic loss, but you can't live like this forever. You can't stop living just because Declan is gone."

"Just go…" she whispered.

"Emily, this isn't healthy and he wouldn't want you to live like this."

She sat up in bed suddenly, her eyes fiercely red from crying. "Just go!" she shouted, her voice choked with tears, "Please,  _just go_!"

"Emily…" he started again.

She reached for the nearest thing on the nightstand and her fingers closed on her glass of water, which she threw in his direction. He managed to dodge it and it shattered against the wall by his head.

He sighed heavily and decided to table the issue until he got home. "I love you," he murmured quietly as he closed the door behind him.

* * *

Ian Doyle had already reached the conclusion that his contact wasn't going to be making an appearance.

He'd flown across the ocean to meet the bastard and left his wife at a time when she desperately needed him – purely because this guy was supposed to have the best merchandise – and he hadn't even had the decency to show up. At best, next time they crossed paths, he would have a few choice words for the asshole.

He finished his drink and stood up from his booth in a quiet back corner, dropping a hundred dollar bill on the table. He'd take an early night and make sure his wife was okay on her own, but he still had a day left in Boston before he could return.

As he crossed to the door, another patron who'd had a few drinks too many bumped into him and spilled his cheap beer on Ian's jacket. He turned around to tell the guy off, but was unable to get a word out before the man recognized him. "Hey, I know you," he said with a wink, "You're the guy with the  _very_ bangable wife. Tell her to give me a call when you're done with her…" He had approximately ten seconds to regret his words before Ian slugged him across the face.

The bartender had known Ian long enough to know better than to question him and was quick to eject the now bloodied man from the establishment.

When Ian exited shortly afterwards, the drunk was waiting for him, with a grudge to settle.

Before he even saw the blade of the knife, though, the attacker had already been disarmed and tackled to the ground by a dark man in a leather jacket who'd appeared out of the shadows, seemingly from thin air.

Recovering from his shock, he offered the stranger a hand to shake. "Seems I owe you one."

"No big deal," the dark man shrugged, accepting the handshake.

"So, you often hang around bars waiting to play the hero?"

"I go where I'm wanted."

Ian chuckled. "Only two types of people that hang around bars: drunks and criminals…and both are rather seedy. Which one are you?"

"What business is it of yours?"

"It's important to know who I'm doing business with," Ian replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lighting one.

"Since when am I doing business with you?"

"I haven't properly introduced myself," he offered with a smirk, "Ian Doyle. One thing you should know about me – people tend to do as I tell them."

"Derek Morgan. And you should know that I like to be left alone."

"Why don't I buy you a drink? I have a proposition that would be in your best interest to hear out."

Once they were back inside the Black Shamrock, both with a fresh drink in hand, Derek asked a little rudely, "What do you want from me?"

"I take it that if you've got the time to patrol outside local watering holes, you're lacking employment?" It was phrased like a question, but he already knew the answer.

"It's hard to find jobs in this economy," Derek sighed bitterly.

Ian's voice was low as he offered, "Not if you're willing to overlook certain things… How are you with a gun?"

"Well, I did grow up in the ghettos of Chicago, defending my white mama…" Ian grinned. "So, what is it that I'll be doing?"

"Recent events have found me in need of better security."

Derek slammed his glass onto the bar, getting annoyed and impatient. "Get to the point. I might be unemployed, but my time is still precious."

"Obviously, you've not heard of me or you wouldn't speak to me like that. I never waste time, especially not my own. And if you wish to work for me, you'd best learn to bite your tongue."

"Then hire someone else," he said, his words slow and measured.

"Don't speak so soon," Ian grinned smugly, "I run a very profitable enterprise and I don't see many other takers for a hired goon. But I can't hire just anyone…"

"What is it you want to know?"

Ian shook his head. "People lie. I'll be having an associate of mine find out everything I need to know. I can't risk having my organization compromised."

"Then I suppose we're done here."

"Here, perhaps. But I'll be returning to Ireland the day after tomorrow. And if my searches don't turn up anything unsavoury, you'll be coming with me."

"To Ireland?"

"It's a good position; you'll live on my estate in the most beautiful country in the world, travel with my wife and I to my other properties on occasion, and travel with me on business should the situation call for it. And as long as you mind your own business and keep your hands off my wife, you'll be paid more than fairly for your work."

"Cheers," Derek said, raising his glass and downing the rest of the amber liquid before slinking into the shadows of the bar and disappearing from sight.


	2. Chapter 2

Ian pulled the heavy bedroom curtains back from the wide bay window set into the far wall, sending sunlight streaming down onto Emily's face. "It's a beautiful day outside, Love..." he gently cajoled. He sat down on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on her blanket clad shoulder. "Why don't we go for a walk?" She hadn't been outside in weeks – had barely left the bedroom except for meals and that was when she ate at all. He wasn't sure the last time she'd changed out of her pyjamas.

She groaned and rolled over so the sun was out of her face, but said nothing.

"We could go visit Declan's grave," he suggested quietly. He ran his hand down her arm to squeeze her hand, finding it ice cold.

"No," she said firmly, resolutely, from deep within her nest of blankets. But she squeezed his hand back. It was the most physical contact they'd had in weeks.

He smiled faintly when she returned the pressure, but it was pained. "You haven't been since the funeral. The crocuses have just started to bloom – you know how he used to love them. You haven't even seen the headstone...he'd want you to come visit," he urged. His thumb fiddled with her wedding band, twisting it about her finger.

"No, Ian!" she shouted, sitting up suddenly and knocking his hand aside. Her mood changes were unpredictably sudden and often violent of late.

"Em, Love..." he soothed, hands held up in supplication, ready to dodge anything she might send flying in his direction.

"I can't do it," she admitted, voice breaking, "I just can't." She let out a heavy breath that trembled on the exhale. Her eyes begged him to understand, to forgive her for her failures. As if he could ever deny her anything.

He said nothing, stroking a hand tenderly over her unbrushed hair and pulling her in to kiss her forehead. When he pulled back, a tear was escaping from her closed eyes. He brushed it away with his thumb without comment.

With a sigh, he shut the door behind him, leaving her to return to her private grieving. He didn't know how much more he could take. He knew she was struggling, was grieving, but this wasn't the woman he'd married. He'd do anything to have her back. (Actually, if he was wishing for things, he'd wish for Declan back – that would make everything better.)

"I apologize for my wife," he said to Derek who was standing sentry outside the bedroom. "She isn't normally this antisocial, but she's struggling to deal with our son's passing. I'm afraid the wound is still too fresh for her."

"I don't imagine there's enough time in the world to get over a child's death," Derek said, perhaps too brazenly, almost as if he were accusing Ian of not grieving hard enough, long enough.

Ian studied him for a long moment, brow furrowed intensely, and Derek briefly regretted his words. "Aye," he agreed eventually, "I imagine you're right."

"How did he die, if you don't mind my asking?" Ian hadn't shared many details about his family life and Derek was curious about what kind of life an arms dealer lead behind closed doors.

"There was a break in," Ian explained, barely keeping the anger out of his voice, even after all the time that had passed. "Emily and I weren't home, Declan was asleep in his bed. The intruder smothered him in his sleep. Security failed to respond to the alarm in time." There was a vacant regretful note to his voice. "A man like me has a lot of enemies," he added cryptically.

"I'm sorry," Derek said gently, not meeting the other man's eyes, knowing he wouldn't want to be seen in a moment of weakness, understanding that probably better than anyone. He briefly wondered what had happened to the murderer, but thought it wisest not to ask.

"She blames herself," he continued, as if Derek weren't there, "She thinks if she'd been there, she could've saved him somehow."

Derek didn't say that that feeling never went away, never got better. He didn't think that would help. He simply nodded and said nothing.

Ian clapped him on the shoulder and walked away down the hall without further conversation or instruction.

Derek couldn't have said why he did it, but without pausing to consider whether it was a good idea, he knocked on the bedroom door and poked his head in.

"I said no, Ian," came Emily's weary voice, muffled by the surrounding bedding. She sounded drained and empty, like she had absolutely nothing left to give to life.

"It's not..." He shook his head, feeling like he was intruding on something he wasn't supposed to have seen. "Sorry for intruding," he apologized and went to retreat.

"Wait," she said, sitting up slowly to fix him with a curious look. "Why are you here?"

"I just wanted to make sure you're okay," he said with a shrug, not entirely sure of the reason himself.

"I'm not," she said softly, "I'll never be okay again."

"You will," he promised, "It's going to take a lot of time and the hurt will never fully go away, but I promise, you  _will_ be okay again. One day you'll realize you're okay again and it doesn't mean you've forgotten, just that you're not reading from that book of pain everyday."

"How do you know?" she asked, meeting his gaze, her eyes filled with desperation and the faintest hint of hope. They take his breath away for the briefest of moments.

He just shook his head a little. "Just give it time," he said vaguely.

She stared blankly ahead for a long time, so long he thought maybe she'd forgotten he was there.

"I'll just..." He gestured awkwardly towards the door.

"Thank you, Derek," she said quietly once his back was turned.

He paused, turned back to look at her, but she was already burrowing back into the blankets.


	3. Chapter 3

"Is everything okay?" Derek asked gently, knocking lightly on the door frame to announce his presence. The room was dark and he had to squint to make out Emily's form, back to the wall, knees pulled into her chest, making herself as small as possible.

He'd been awoken in the middle of the night by a heart-rending wail echoing through the walls of the upper floor and thought it best to investigate. He'd followed the sound to find Emily sobbing as if her heart were breaking and he almost turned away, feeling like he were witnessing something he wasn't meant to see, but he couldn't just leave her there without knowing if she was alright.

"Fine," Emily replied, voice warbling. She sniffled and wiped a tear off her cheek. "Just go back to sleep." She looked dishevelled, like her hair hadn't been brushed in days and her pyjamas clearly needed to be washed. Her appearance was obviously not high on her list of priorities and, in spite of that, he could clearly tell that she was beautiful. But he wasn't supposed to think of her like that...

Seeing through her facade as easily as glass, he crossed the room to sit on the floor beside her. He didn't say anything and neither did she. Silence reigned for a long time. He took in the room around him, obviously a child's room, and it didn't take much to figure out why she was crying.

"I left it the way he left it – that last day when I put him to bed," she whispered eventually. All signs of any intruder, any struggle, had been erased, presumably by Emily, every last detail painstakingly restored to its child-like chaos. "He didn't want to go to sleep, he was too busy playing," she relived, "He kept begging for five more minutes, but we were late for dinner. I should've indulged him. I should've played with him just a little longer. If I'd known..."

"He liked dinosaurs?" Derek asked when she trailed off, stopping her from drowning in the welling grief. He nodded towards the plastic figurines scattered across the floor, clearly the favourite. They were surrounded by the shambles of a wooden block castle, clearly built by adult hands and demolished by a child's play.

"They're dragons," she corrected with a soft smile. "He likes playing knight.  _Liked_..." she corrected herself, voice breaking.

"Let me guess," Derek said, "He was the hero and you were the princess and he had to save you?"

She shook her head, fond memories shining in her eyes. "The knights and the dragons were friends. That week they were running a theatre company. I think they were putting on a performance of The Lion King."

Derek laughed, he couldn't help the jovial sound from bubbling up, in spite of the sombre atmosphere. "That's a new one..."

Emily nodded, a faint smile playing about her lips at the memory. "He was never one to do the expected. He had a mind of his own. I don't think he ever once played them at combat. Much to Ian's chagrin."

She'd always been incredibly proud of his uniquely unflinching gentle soul and wanted to preserve it at all costs. Ian had spoken often that he needed to be toughened up, while Emily maintained that his youthful innocence needed to be preserved as long as possible and it was one of the few issues Emily was willing to match him scream for scream on. In the end, she always won.

"He was gentle and kind," she continued when he said nothing. "Ian would have liked him to be harder, rougher, more like him...he always said he raised warriors. But Declan was so tenderhearted. And I loved him all the more for it.

"I wonder sometimes who he would've grown up to be," she mused wistfully. "Whether he would've become who Ian wanted him to be, whether he would've stayed his own person. Now, I'll never know... I would've loved him regardless. All I ever wanted was for him to be happy."

Derek wanted to say something, anything, to ease her broken heart, but he doubted there were any words adequate, so he said nothing. But he reached out a hand to where hers was resting limply and rested it on top, squeezing lightly.

She didn't respond for a long time, staring down at their joined hands as if the concept was foreign to her and he was starting to think he'd crossed a line. He was about to withdraw the contact and apologize when he felt the barest of pressure in return. Faint enough that he could've imagined it, he squeezed back anyway, as if she might float away if he didn't anchor her down.

"I thought you were a ghost," he said suddenly, breaking her solemn silence. A timid attempt at breaking the tension of grief.

"What?" she said, choking on a sob that was almost a laugh.

"When I heard you crying...I thought the house was haunted," he explained.

She gave a derisive snort. "Ian is far too superstitious to live in a haunted house," she informed him.

That surprised Derek and for a moment, he thought she might be kidding.

"And don't even get him started on the Fae," she added, rolling her eyes.

"Like fairies?" he asked, skeptical.

Emily nodded solemnly. "He thinks he's angered the Gentry and that's why Declan died," she said in the barest of whispers.

Derek wanted to tell her that that was crazy, that her son's death was nothing more than a tragic crime, but he wasn't sure questioning his employer's beliefs was the best idea, so he said nothing. "You should get some rest," he gently encouraged instead.

She shook her head. "I don't want to keep Ian awake. I can't sleep. I can't stop thinking about him...I see him every time I close my eyes. When does that go away?"

He shook his head. He wished he had an answer for her. He just squeezed her hand tighter.


	4. Chapter 4

"You're out of bed!" Ian exclaimed.

"You sound surprised," Emily replied as she trudged into the kitchen, stifling a yawn.

Ian didn't bother pointing out that she hadn't gotten out of bed in time for breakfast in several weeks. He didn't think it would help anything; he was just glad to see her out of bed. She looked better than she had in weeks; she'd gone to the effort of showering and washing her hair and that alone had made an enormous difference. She looked healthier – clearer, brighter.

He crossed the kitchen and pulled her in for a kiss.

"What was that for?" she asked with a laugh once he'd pulled away.

The sound of her genuine laughter for the first time in so long made his heart feel lighter. "Can't a man just be happy to see his wife?" he asked, then kissed her a second time. He'd missed this, the taste of her lips, the feel of her shy smile. "Can I get you something to eat?"

"I think I can manage," she said, smiling at his concern. She stroked a hand down his stubbly cheek, remembering how it felt to be close to him, to be in love.

"Sit." He shook his head, leaving no room for argument. "I'm making you breakfast." He also didn't say he was glad to see her appetite had come back; for awhile, he'd been afraid she might wither away and die. "How do you feel this morning?" he asked quietly, reverently, after a long period of silence but for the sound of him preparing her food.

"I really hate that question," she replied. But he was looking at her so lovingly, with so much understanding, and all she could do was sigh. She shrugged and it seemed to take a great effort. "I feel... I don't know...heavy. Like there's a weight on my shoulders and I'm just not strong enough." She said it in a whisper, hating the words as they fell from her lips.

He set down a plate of toast in front of her – it was the only thing she could keep down lately. "You're the strongest person I know," he murmured, kissing the back of her hand.

She knew that he meant it, even when she wished he didn't have so much faith in her because she could only ever let him down. She smiled softly at him. "How do you do it?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to study him.

"Do what?" he asked, intertwining their fingers and holding tightly to her hand as if afraid she might slip away.

"How do you deal with your grief so easily?"

"It hasn't been easy, Em." His voice was small and sad and broken, "None of it has been easy. But you've needed me, so I've held it together for you."

Emily's heart clenched a little. "I'm so sorry, Ian, I didn't mean to take away from your grief."

"No, Em, no no no," he soothed. He took her face in his hands, wiping away the tears that had welled up. "I'd do anything for you, you know that."

She gave a watery smile. "I love you." Then, for good measure, she kissed him tenderly.

At that moment, Derek emerged into the kitchen. He paused for a moment, then cleared his throat, feeling like he were witnessing something he shouldn't have intruded upon.

Ian pulled away from the kiss with reluctance. "Liam and I are leaving to meet with a supplier," he told her. "I'm leaving Derek here to keep an eye on things."

"I don't need a babysitter," she insisted, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"But I need the peace of mind of knowing you're safe. You're all I have left in the world..."

* * *

"You really don't have to come with me," Emily insisted, exiting the car. She had an appointment in the city and he had insisted on accompanying her.

Derek was quick to follow after her. "I'm afraid Ian's orders were very clear, ma'am."

She almost shuddered at the honorific. "What about my orders? And don't call me ma'am."

"No offence, but you're much less terrifying than Ian."

"Hey!" Emily scowled. "I'm terrifying too – you should see me with a revolver."

Derek just laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "While I'm sure you're an excellent shot, I'm not about to leave you to your own devices and risk receiving Ian's wrath.

Emily rolled her eyes and lit a cigarette as she walked. She took a long drag, held the smoke in her lungs for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.

"Should you be doing that?" he asked, "Those things will kill you, you know."

"You sound like Ian," she scoffed, but continued smoking nonetheless.

"Good," he said firmly. "He already lost one important person in his life, I doubt he'd keen on losing another."

She shook her head slowly, but sadly, saying nothing and he briefly regretted bringing up the subject of her dead son.

"Listen," he said awkwardly after a moment, "If you ever need someone to talk to – like the other night – I'm always..."

She held up a hand to stop him. "I appreciate what you did for me the other night, but...I don't think it should happen again."

"What? Why?"

"Ian is very protective – if he even suspects impropriety, it could be very dangerous for you. He's killed men for much less."

"It was just a conversation, I was trying to make you feel better," he said as if it were the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

"Ian may not see it that way," she replied, "It's best that we keep things professional from this point forwards." She studied the lit end of the cigarette as if it were the most interesting thing in the world to avoid looking at him.

"Oh, okay..." He tried not to let the rejection sink into his voice.

"It's nothing personal, I like you, really, I just think it's in everyone's best interests," she explained.

He nodded slowly, but couldn't help the wounded expression that crossed his face.

Emily went back to her cigarette so she didn't have to see.


	5. Chapter 5

"Ian, what the fuck!?" Emily shouted, bursting into the room.

"Emily, calm down," he said without turning around as if he'd been waiting for this moment.

"Like hell I'll calm down! What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm packing his things away. There's no need to keep his room as some sort of shrine, collecting dust."

She crossed the room in three strides and pushed him away from the box he was currently packing. She didn't stop to think whether it was a good idea, whether it would anger Ian, only that she  _couldn't_ let him pack all she had left of her son into a box like he didn't matter.

He held up his hands in supplication. "Emily, calm down," he repeated. "I know you're upset, but it's time we started moving on with our lives. We can't leave his room set up forever."

"It's only been two months," she plead, emotions fluctuating wildly between anger and sadness, "I need more time!"

"How long?" he argued, "How much time, Emily? A year? Two? How much time do you need?"

"I don't know!" she said, on the verge of tears, "Just  _more_!"

"I can't keep living like this, Emily – I need closure, finality. I need an ending. And I'm going to get it."

"What does that mean?" she asked, anger rising again.

"It means I'm doing this." He went back to packing the box, carefully folding Declan's favourite pair of Spiderman pyjamas and placing them inside without a tear, without hesitation, without reverence.

She pulled the pyjamas right back out of the box, holding the soft fleece up against her cheek for a moment, eyes fluttering shut as she breathed in the little boy's scent of peanut butter and fresh air. "Ian, stop!" she begged, "Please, I'm not ready!"

"We can't put our lives on hold, Emily. We can't stop living just because he has." He was trying to be calm, be reasonable, but his temper was quickly rising. "You're being unreasonable."

" _Unreasonable_!?" she nearly shrieked. "What part of any of this has been reasonable? The fact that our son – our  _five_ year old – was murdered? The fact that it's your fault?"

"There it is..." he said, throwing his hands up. "There's the thing you've been wanting to say all this time. It's  _my_ fault..."

"It is! What kind of normal person has enemies who murder children? What did you do to him? What could you have possibly done to anger someone that much!?" She'd never dared to ask, didn't want to know, but she couldn't help throwing it in his face in the heat of the moment.

"It doesn't matter now. He's been dealt with." He waved away her concern. He continued folding clothes and putting them in the box like she hadn't just accused him of being responsible for their son's murder.

"Stop it, Ian! Just stop it! For five fucking minutes can you stop being  _you_ and just be a good husband?"

"So, I'm a bad husband now?" he challenged, a bubble of anger bursting in his chest. His fists clenched at his sides; he'd never hit her before, never even dreamed of hurting her, but he wanted to hit  _something._

"Well, you're not a good one!" she retorted, just as angry, just as frustrated.

"Maybe you should just leave, then! If I'm such a horrible person, you should go and I won't be your problem anymore!"

"Maybe I will!" she shouted, even though she didn't mean it.

"Good." He whirled around and put his fist through the wall. "Leave, Emily! Run away! It's what you're good at!"

"I hate you," she seethed.

"Good. That should make it easy for you."

She gave him one last withering glare before turning on her heel and marching out of the room.

* * *

Derek knocked softly on the bedroom door. "Emily?"

"What?" she snapped when he poked his head in. She was moving about the room in a frenzy, stuffing clothing into a duffel bag.

"I was just checking..." he started to say, then stopped, catching sight of the bag slung across her shoulder. "Are you going somewhere?"

"I'm leaving. Ian doesn't want me here, so I'm giving him exactly what he wished for."

He couldn't have said why that made his heart clench, all he knew was that he couldn't let that happen. "Emily..." he started.

"Let me guess, you're going to take his side: tell me I'm being stupid and overemotional." She gestured at him with her toothbrush. "Well, you can save the lecture. I'm not going to stay where I'm not wanted."

"No, actually, I was going to say that you're right. He's trying to make you move on before you're ready and that's going to do more damage than good. You need to take the time to feel what you feel, that's the only way to get over it."

She seemed dumb-founded that he'd actually agreed with her.

"But I also think you're making a mistake," he continued.

She looked at him like he'd slapped her. "Excuse me?"

"You can't run away. The only way out is through."

"I'm not running away," she disagreed. "I'm leaving because of Ian, not my emotions, not Declan."

"You obviously love Ian or you wouldn't have married him. You'll regret letting this tear you apart. It isn't going to be easy to get through – alone or together – but trust me, it's so much better to work through it together."

"He told me to leave..." she pointed out.

"He didn't mean that. It was the grief talking. He needs you as much as you need him – maybe even more."

Some of the ire seemed to have bled out of her and now, she just looked tired, depleted. She let her bag fall to the floor, body listless.

"I don't know how to do this," she admitted. "We're broken...so broken.  _I'm_ broken. And I don't know how to fix it. Any of it."

"You're never going to fit the pieces back together exactly the way they used to fit. You're going to have to tape and glue and staple everything together and it will only slightly resemble what it used to be, but with time it will be stronger, better, than it used to be."

"How do you know?" she asked, sounding oh so desperate. "How can you make me these promises?"

He shook his head slowly. "You're not the only one who hurts," he whispered.


	6. Chapter 6

Emily met Ian Doyle the summer after she'd graduated from college, while bar-tending at the Black Shamrock.

It was clear from the first time he set eyes on her that he wanted her. But she'd heard stories about the infamous Ian Doyle and had effectively been frightened away from him. Not that that had ever stopped him from getting his way – or her from making bad decisions.

Whenever he was in Boston on business, he'd slip her his number with a devilish grin. And she'd wink and smile back, stuffing the napkin with his number into her bra, trying to ignore the way his smile made her stomach do flip flops. But she never called him and he never asked why she didn't, but he persisted anyway, clearly confident in his abilities to win her over.

Then, one night – she couldn't have said how or why – she found herself giving in to his charms.

He was hanging around as she closed up, intentionally nursing his whisky for an excuse to stay past last call. She had no idea why she hadn't kicked him out with the rest of the patrons, but she'd let him stay as she cleaned up for the night.

"I've got to know," he said, "How did a good girl like you end up working in a dive like this?"

She didn't miss the way he stared down her dress as she wiped down the bar and only then did she think to regret the fact that she'd gone braless. But only a little. More than anything, his hungry gaze was building heat in the pit of her stomach.

She gave a wicked grin. "I'm not a good girl..." she husked, voice laden with implication. She didn't know why she was flirting with him, why she was teasing him, all she knew was the way his smile turned absolutely predatory at her words sent heat rushing straight to her core.

"Talking like that will get you in trouble," he warned her.

"I like trouble," she replied smartly. She circled around to the front of the bar as if to wipe it down, pretending she didn't notice him checking out her ass.

He chuckled. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

She just smiled mysteriously. "You have no idea."

Before she knew what was happening, he surged forwards to kiss her. She didn't know why, but she let him. In fact, she balled a fist in his shirt, pulling him as close as possible so she was better able to take control.

The whisky was strong on his breath and his tongue, almost enough to give her a contact high. The stubble on his cheeks burned against the tender skin of her face. She found she liked the roughness, the danger of him.

She broke the kiss with a sharp gasp, struggling to catch her breath again. Her mind was still spinning, unable to react when he lifted her to sit on the bar.

He laughed when he pulled her skirt up and found she wasn't wearing any panties either. Emily felt her cheeks pink at the reaction. "I got dressed in a hurry..." she offered by way of explanation.

He chuckled and she felt the puff of air against her bare thighs. "I'm a big fan," he husked, breathing in the scent of her arousal.

She yelped in surprise, back arching as his tongue hit her cunt. He was deft and skillful with his tongue and she couldn't help but cry out, "God,  _yes_! Take me, Ian, please!"

The vibrations of his laughter could be felt as his teeth scraped against her clit.

She trailed a hand up her torso and pinched a nipple through the fabric of her dress. She knew he was watching from between her legs. His laughter turned into an appreciative hum.

"You want your cock inside me, don't you?" she asked, surprising herself with her boldness. This wasn't like her to fuck some guy she barely knew in a seedy bar – it was wrong...God, it was  _so_ wrong, but it turned her on like crazy. "You want to fuck me." She knew he did by the way he was palming himself through his jeans.

It shouldn't have surprised her how easily he was bringing her to the brink of orgasm – she'd heard stories of him being a prolific lover, leaving the bar with woman after woman on his arm – but it surprised her nonetheless. Maybe because she'd never had anything other than clumsy teenaged boys between her legs that left her more frustrated than satisfied.

Finally, she could stand it no longer. "Fuck me, Ian!" she demanded. His responding groan only served to turn her on further. "Ram that hard dick inside me so fucking hard I'll feel it tomorrow." She never talked like this – filthy words, bossy tone, unapologetically demanding exactly what she wanted – but found it so fucking hot.

As he stood, he popped one breast out of her dress and leaned down to nip it sharply. He suckled at it, palming the other breast through her dress entirely too roughly and she loved it. She tilted her head back, one hand going to the back of his head, her nails digging into his scalp as she clutched at him.

" _Fuck_  me!" she practically begged.

"I'm gonna fuck you, Emily," he growled, low in his throat. "I want your hot tight pussy around my cock. I want to use your little good girl cunt like you're a fucking whore."

"God, yes!" she cried out. "My cunt's throbbing...you feel that?" She knew he felt it, his hand still cupping her pussy, collecting her juices and smearing them along her slit and over her thighs that still burned from the scraping of his stubble.

He took his cock in his hand and lined himself up, pushing into her hard enough to make her cry out. He was rough enough that it sent not a small amount of pain rushing through her. He had a big cock – long and thick – and it stretched her to the point she thought she might tear, but  _God_ it felt good.

She didn't know how much more stimulation she could stand when his calloused fingers slipped between her thighs to find her clit and she cried out sharply, her entire body spasming with pleasure. She raked her nails down his back, surely scratching up the leather of his jacket, but she was entirely too preoccupied to care.

"God, Ian," she panted, "I fucking love your gorgeous cock. You're so fucking hard. Fuck, my cunt loves your cock."

He couldn't help but groan, her crass words making his cock twitch inside her. He lifted one of her legs to get a better angle as he rammed into her again and again, filling the darkened bar with the sound of their flesh slamming together.

She was coming then, crying out, "Fuck Ian...fuck, fuck...God, yes!" Her entire body trembled with her release, cunt spasming around his cock.

He held out as long as he could in spite of her clenching around him, in spite of the sight of her clutching the bar for dear life as she came down from her high, still cursing under her breath. He clutched her ass, holding her firmly in place as he slammed into her until his release hit, spilling messily into her.

A week later, she'd quit her job and was on her way to Ireland with him.

She thought about that sometimes. She didn't regret it, had never regretted it. But she thought about it.

She'd given up everything to be with him – she'd moved across the ocean and left everything behind. He'd been all she had. He was  _still_ all she had. And, at times like this, burdened by her grief and the growing heaviness between them, she wondered if she hadn't made a mistake...


	7. Chapter 7

"Emily?" Ian said from the doorway to their room, voice barely there, timid almost. It was the middle of the night and he wasn't sure if she'd still be awake, but he'd been unable to sleep without her next to him, no matter how comfortable the bed in the guest room was.

"Go away, Ian," she replied just as softly, just as wide awake without him. "I'm still  _so_ angry with you."

"I'm sorry," he said, daring to come a few steps closer. He didn't miss the way she'd been wrapped around his pillow like it was the only thing keeping her afloat in a raging sea. "About earlier. I said things I shouldn't have said. I was angry, but that's no excuse."

"Which part shouldn't you have said?" she asked, sitting up so she could properly affix him with her coldest glare, "The part where you called me crazy? The part where you told me to leave?"

"I didn't call you..." he started, then cut himself off. "It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have said any of it."

"No, you shouldn't," she agreed.

"It was cruel of me to pack up his things without giving you a say in the matter. I should have waited until you were ready." He wasn't normally one to apologize, but Emily was the only thing he had left in the world and he was willing to do whatever it took to keep her.

"Yeah, you should've," she agreed again.

"I guess, I haven't handled his death as well as I'd thought. Perhaps, packing away all evidence that he'd been here was my way of not dealing with my emotions."

"Why are you so afraid to  _feel_ things?" she asked. "Our son is gone and he's never coming back, doesn't that  _kill_  you inside? It kills me..."

"It does. I just...I don't know how to face that without falling apart," he admitted. "I guess, I've never learned how to deal with loss. It's always just been a part of my life, as much as breathing."

She cocked her head to the side as she stared sadly at him and, after a long moment, she shifted over to make room for him in bed next to her. "I don't know how to live without him," she whispered.

"Neither do I, Love," he echoed, climbing in bed beside her and wrapping his arms around her. "Neither do I."

She leaned her head on his shoulder and pressed a kiss to his neck. "I know I can't do it without you," she said so softly he was barely sure he'd heard it.

"You don't have to," he promised. "You never have to be alone."

They were silent for a long time, wrapped around each other, her crying soundless tears into his chest when she whispered, "We need to see someone..."

"Hmm?"

"We need to see someone," she repeated, then elaborated, "A grief counsellor. We can't do this on our own."

And though opening up to a stranger about the grief that seemed to be ripping his insides to shreds was the last thing he wanted to do, he would do anything to keep Emily, so he eventually nodded. "If that's what you want."

"I want us to be whole again..."

* * *

The counsellor didn't ask how they were feeling and for that, Emily was extremely grateful.

She did, however, ask how they were doing as a couple... She was much less grateful about that. The answer was 'not good'.

"He never says his name," Emily said quietly before she knew she was going to say anything.

She knew the facts, knew that a child's death could tear even the strongest couple apart. The thought alone made her feel like she was drowning, like her lungs were filling with something heavy and her heart might burst from the pressure building around her. She wondered sometimes if Ian could see that she was slowly suffocating, if he felt it too.

"And this upsets you?" the counsellor prompted.

"It's like he's trying to erase Declan. Like he's trying to pretend he never existed."

"Emily, you know that's not..." he started. The counsellor stopped him, then gestured for Emily to continue.

"I want to talk about Declan," she said, "I want to  _remember_ him – we have five years of memories, but it's like all we ever talk about is that last night. Why it happened, whose fault it was..."

"Emily, Declan's death was no one's fault. Blaming yourself is natural after something like this, but it isn't healthy," the counsellor said.

Her tongue flicked out to lick her top lip, eyes focused on the ceiling to keep the building tears from falling. "I feel stuck, like every day I wake up, it's like living that first day without him over and over and over again. But it's like Ian's already moved on with his life, like he's forgotten. And I hate him for it..." Her eyes were wide in surprise, not expecting the sudden vitriol. "I  _hate_  him," she repeated, with renewed conviction, "I hate that it's all been  _so fucking easy_ for him to get up and go on with his life like our son isn't  _dead_!"

"Of course, I haven't moved on," Ian countered, voice rising in anger. "I just don't want to live with ghosts anymore. Declan's gone and he isn't coming back. You have to accept that sooner or later, Emily. You can't mope about pathetically the rest of your life..."

"He's not a ghost, he's our  _son_ ," she cried, "A son we wanted more than anything! And I  _need_ to remember him. I refuse to apologize for caring that he's gone!"

"He  _was_ our son," Ian pointed out softly. He stared down at his hands, unable to meet her gaze after he'd blurted out those words, knowing the expression on her face without seeing it – that one that looked like he'd just physically struck her.

Emily just stared at him, mouth hanging open slightly in dismay. Then, without a word, she stood suddenly and fled the room, tears in her eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

"Shit! Fuck! Shit!"

Derek followed the colorful stream of curses down the stairs and into the kitchen to find Emily standing at the stove over a flaming frying pan. "Jesus, Emily! Are you trying to burn the house down!?" he exclaimed, grabbing the pan from her and extinguishing the flames.

That's when he realized she was crying. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, sobbing as if her very heart were breaking. Several awkward moments passed between them while he wrung his hands, knowing he should go to her, comfort her, but afraid of his actions being perceived as untoward.

Finally, he could stand it no longer and he pulled her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her, impropriety be damned. This only served to make her cry harder, her entire body wracked with sobs, her tears wetting the fabric of his shirt.

Then, she seemed to remember herself and pulled sharply out of his embrace, breath hitching as she wiped her tears away with the heels of her hands. He looked away as she collected herself, knowing without being told that she would hate for him to see her weak. He related to her entirely too much.

"What were you making?" he asked, staring down at the charred remains in the pan, when she seemed to have regained her composure, struggling for something to say that wouldn't make her tears start all over.

"Fried peanut butter and jam sandwiches," she said, voice very small. "They used to be Declan's favourite."

"They look a little Cajun..." he pointed out quietly, cursing himself while simultaneously hoping she wouldn't start crying all over again.

"Well, I never was the best cook," she said with a shrug, her cheeks flaming red with embarrassment. She turned her back to him, scraping at the frying pan as if it had personally done her wrong.

"Hey, hey," he said gently, resting a hand on her shoulder to stop her, "Let me." He scraped the sandwiches into the garbage and proceeded to start over.

"You don't have to..." she started to protest, but there was little power behind it. She had so little fight left in her.

"I want to," he insisted. It wasn't about the sandwiches, he knew.

Silence passed between them for several long minutes. "So..." he said eventually, "Counselling didn't go so well?" It didn't take a genius to figure that one out, considering that they'd arrived home from the session in seething silence and Ian had immediately locked himself in his study, likely to drink, and hadn't emerged since. Emily had used that uninterrupted time to unpack all the boxes Ian had packed the day before.

"How did you know about that?" she asked, frowning. Her eyes were full of warning, daring him almost to say the wrong thing.

"It's my job to know." It wasn't a question, but he inflected that way, hoping she'd accept the answer.

"It's not your job to be nosey," she snapped, but there was no real heat behind it. Just weariness.

Another silence. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked quietly.

She didn't say anything for so long, he thought she was ignoring him. "I feel so alone," she whispered at length, looking anywhere but at him.

"You have Ian," he said quietly. There was a note of something in his voice that she was afraid to name.

She shook her head and it seemed like that action alone drained her of all she had left. "Not anymore. Not really. He's changed since..." She couldn't bring herself to say it. "I've changed."

Then, even quieter. "You have me..."

There was another protracted silence in which she seemed lost for a response, mouth hanging open slightly, shaking her head slowly.

Feeling awkward, he added, "If you want... I mean..."

"Why?" she interrupted his rambling and it was angry, almost, for reasons he couldn't discern.

He blinked dumbly at her a few times. "Why what?"

"What do you have to gain from this? Did Ian tell you to say that?" Her anger was rising against her will, but she couldn't keep her temper from flaring. It happened more and more often lately and she hated the sudden and unpredictable violence of it, but she just couldn't help it.

"What? No, no – this has nothing to do with gaining anything. I just...thought you could use a friend," he explained.

"A friend," she repeated softly as if testing out the word. "I haven't had a friend in a long time."

"Me either," he admitted, but his smile was hopeful.

Her echoing smile was only sad.

He set a sandwich in front of her – cut diagonally, the way Declan liked, even though she hadn't told him. "I used to make these for him when he had a nightmare," she said after a long moment of staring at the sandwich with tears in her eyes. "Ian didn't like him sleeping in our bed, said he was too old for it. But I didn't want him to be afraid. So, he'd wake me up and we'd have sandwiches and cuddle until he fell back asleep. I'll never have a chance to do that again – to soothe his tears, to cuddle him...it was all just suddenly gone."

Then, realizing she'd just poured her heart out to her bodyguard whom she barely knew, she took several too big bites of sandwich to silence herself.

"Chocolate milk and banana bread," he said to break the silence. She gave him a quizzical look, so he explained, "That's what my mom used to give us when we had nightmares. It's...it's what I would have done for my son..."

Emily's face froze. "You have a son?" Her tone was jealous, almost.

His eyes flicked away from hers, but for the briefest of moments, she saw the raw unadulterated hurt there. "Had..." he said softly.


	9. Chapter 9

"Oh..." Emily said slowly, softly. " _Oh_..." She clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes suddenly wide as she struggled for what to say, what to do next.

"Yeah," he said, just as slowly, just as softly. He stared down at his sandwich for a few moments, just as lost, then pushed it away from him, no longer hungry.

"What...what happened?" she dared to ask, voice barely there at all.

He didn't respond for so long, his eyes vacant and unseeing, she felt sick with awkwardness and anxiety. The last thing she wanted to do was pry, to make him relive something he wasn't ready to face, but she was so desperate to talk to someone who had gone through it and come out the other side. Most days she wasn't sure there was an other side at all...

"Please," she whispered, desperate. "I need...I need to know there's, I don't know, hope? Life afterwards? Please..."

He sighed like every fibre of his being was exhausted. "His name was Hank – for my father. We never planned on having kids, not with the life I lead, but when we found out, everything changed. I cleaned up my act, got a real job...I did everything to give my son a better life than I had.

"You have to understand...my mother tried her absolute hardest to give me a good life, to set me on a good path. She might have succeeded, if my father hadn't died. She did her best as a single mother raising three children, but we needed money and the local gang offered me cash to run errands for them. It started out small, like delivering drugs, but they slowly started asking for more and more until I was a full-fledged member.

"Then, almost a year to the day after he was born, they came looking for me. 'Blood in, blood out' – that was the law and I had broken it. They shot my girlfriend, my son, and very nearly killed me too. Some days, I wish they had."

She reached a hand towards him, then faltered because what comfort could she offer in the face of such immense suffering? She bit down on her lip hard, then, feeling braver, she closed the distance and wrapped her hand around his.

He stared at his hands until she started to worry she'd crossed a line, then looked up to meet her eyes. She attempted a smile, but all there was was sadness, was pain.

"Does it get better?" she asked. "Everyone always says it does, but..." She shook her head. If there was a 'better', she hadn't found it.

"No...and yes," he answered vaguely, his hand still tightly gripped in hers.

"Please, tell me it does. I need to know there's something better," she begged. If she couldn't see the light, she just needed to know it was there, waiting for her to find it.

"It will, but it's going to hurt for a really long time. Sometimes, it will feel like it's been forever and all around you is an ocean of pain. There will be times it hurts so badly you'll wish you would die so it can just  _end_. But then you'll start to see good in the world again, feel happiness again and it will start to feel like it's okay, that it's okay to be okay."

"When?" she asked desperately. "Because right now, it's just... _not_."

"I wish I had a good answer for that," he said with a helpless shrug. "It just happens one day. You just have to keep living your life, knowing that it  _will_ get better if you just give it enough time."

A pink sliver of tongue flicked out to moisten her lip, her eyes lifting towards the ceiling as tears collected. "It doesn't feel like it will ever get better. It just feels like all there is is pain as far as I can see," she said hoarsely.

"I know, Em, I know." He wordlessly folded her into his chest as she cried silently breathless tears.

In retrospect, she couldn't have said how or why it happened, only that one moment he was consoling her and the next, he was kissing her.

And she knew she should stop him, stop the kissing – she was a married woman, for God's sake – but something inside her stalled and all there was in the world was the two of them, intertwined, until they were almost one being.

She moaned softly against his lips, fisting her hands in his shirt to keep him flush against her as he backed her into the counter. His fingers combed into her hair, tangling themselves in the strands, and she couldn't have escaped even if she'd wanted to. She'd forgotten what it was like to feel passion, to feel  _anything_...

It took her longer than she was proud of to remember herself, to remember her husband but a floor above, grieving for their son... She felt herself wilt in his embrace. She turned her head, nose brushing along his cheek, but she remained wrapped tightly into his chest until she could feel his racing heart keeping time with hers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, wanting words when there were none. "I'm just...I'm sorry." She kept her eyes closed, afraid of looking into his eyes and seeing what was reflected there.

"Don't be. I'm the one who should be sorry. I knew you were married and I kissed you anyway. It was inappropriate of me and I hope you'll forgive me, but I'll understand if you no longer feel comfortable employing me," he apologized.

She attempted an awkward smile, but knew it looked as forced as it felt. "It was my fault as much as yours. As long as Ian  _never_  finds out, I see no reason why this needs to be a big deal."

"Thank you," he said softly as they backed apart. But there was a note in his voice that made her stomach twist into knots, a note she pretended she didn't hear.


	10. Chapter 10

The first time it happened, it wasn't something that either of them planned.

Though she'd never admit it, Emily hadn't been able to stop thinking about the kiss she'd shared with Derek. It was everything a kiss with Ian was not – tender where he was rough and claiming, expressive where he was unfeeling. She loved Ian, with all her heart, but there was something in that kiss with Derek Morgan that made her  _feel_ things.

She didn't know why she went down to his room that night that Ian was away, why she knocked on his door. All she knew was that  _feeling_ deep inside when he opened the door and smiled that winning smile.

"Something wrong?" he asked, mirth shining in his eyes. "Another spider for me to kill?"

She rolled her eyes. She'd asked him to kill  _one_ spider (an  _enormous_  spider) and he would never let her live it down. "No, not another spider," she scoffed. She paused, wavered. "I just came to say good night," she said, feeling suddenly shy.

He must have heard a note in her voice that gave him pause because his expression was suddenly serious. "Is everything alright?" he asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Yeah. No, everything is fine. Really," she rambled. She had to look away from the intensity in his eyes to stop herself. She smiled softly, looking back up at him through her lashes.

He laughed a little. "So, what are you..."

She cut him off, surging forwards to press her lips to his, sealing them in a searing kiss. He didn't waste any time in kissing her back, but she could sense his hesitation sure as anything.

When she pulled away for air, she braced herself for his reaction, fearing his rejection. She looked anywhere but at him, feeling his scrutiny on her.

"What are you doing, Em?" he asked softly, reaching out to cup her cheek in his palm, forcing her to meet his eye.

"I don't know," she admitted, ashamed. "I just...I wanted this." She indicated between the two of them needlessly.

"What about Ian?" he asked, the voice of reason when she just wanted to be  _unreasonable_  for once.

"I can't...think about him right now," she said, shaking her head. "Please... I need... I need to feel loved." She was begging now and she hated the pleading note in her voice, but she was desperate. "I just need someone to hold me."

Her eyes were so soft, so sad, that he felt something inside him giving way when he knew he shouldn't. "Em..."

"Please?" she said again, "Just for tonight. He never has to know."

He tilted his head slightly to examine her, feeling himself giving in, in spite of himself. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd reached out a pulled her into him, renewing their kiss with urgency. "Just for tonight," he whispered against her lips.

She murmured an indistinct agreement, her hands already slipping under his shirt to explore the planes of muscle underneath.

"Slow down, Princess," he chuckled. "We've got all night."

Seeming to ignore his admonition, she backed him into the room, kicking the door shut behind them. She yanked his shirt up and over his head before reaching for her own.

Her eagerness was infectious, spilling over into him. He batted her hands away from the hem of her shirt, feeling a little thrill of exposing something so utterly forbidden to him.

Once she was standing there in only her bra, she was suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny, the intensity of his gaze seeming to burn holes in her skin.

"Hey," he said gently, lifting her chin. "You're beautiful," he breathed.

She smiled shyly and, emboldened, she reached back to undo her bra, never taking her eyes from his. She let it fall to the floor, baring herself completely to him.

"Beautiful," he said again, pulling her back to him by her hips. He affixed his lips to her neck, teeth raking lightly over the soft skin there.

"Careful," she rasped, "If you leave a mark, he'll know..."

Once again, he doubted whether this was a good idea, Ian's warning that first night still fresh in his mind. But then, Emily's nimble fingers were on his belt buckle, far too close to a sensitive area and he swallowed thickly. "Em..." he warned.

But she was already on her knees, unzipping his jeans, and his protests died in his throat. Her hand was warm and soft on his cock and she pumped her hand a few times to get him hard before her lips wrapped around him. He groaned, head lolling back as she started bobbing her head, sucking him off with no small amount of talent.

"Em...Emily," he wasn't sure if he was trying to make her stop or continue, his hand tangling in her hair, seemingly with a mind of its own as he pushed her in closer. Then, shaking his head, he protested, "Not-not like this..."

She pulled back with a wet pop, wiping her saliva off her cheek with the back of her hand. "You want me to stop?" she taunted, tongue flicking out to lick her lips teasingly.

"No...I mean, yes." He cleared his throat. "Yes. I want to be inside you."

She gave a little whimper, tongue darting out again, this time nervously as she settled back on the bed. She leaned back on her elbows, watching as he stripped out of his clothes.

She could tell he was nervous in the way he looked at her as he crawled up her body, eyes darting about like he was suddenly afraid to look at her. "I don't...have anything," he said lamely, gesturing at his cock.

"It's okay," she reassured. "I'm on the pill."

"Won't he know, if I..." he asked awkwardly.

She shook her head, a little sadly. "We don't..." she said, just as awkwardly, a faint sheen of tears in her eyes.

The mood effectively dampened, he asked, "Should I...?"

"Please," she choked, "I need..." She slid a hand around his neck to pull him in for a kiss, trying to reignite the passion.

With a cautious hand, he reached between her legs and slipped two fingers into her. She gasped sharply at the intrusion, the sound going straight to his cock. "You like that?" he asked, pumping his hand inside her.

She keened softly, back arching into his hand as he finger fucked her like it was the last time he'd ever touch a woman.

"You ready for me?"

"Yes," she hissed, "Fuck me, Derek!"

He slid his hand from her cunt with a slippery sound of her juices. He took himself in his hand, guiding himself into her with a deep groan. "Fuckkk," he moaned, slowly starting to move his hips.

"Derek," she breathed, "Yes!"

"Oh, Em, you feel so good," he rasped. "Can I go harder?"

"Yes," she begged, "Please..."

"Emily," he chanted, "Em..." His hips sped up their tempo, plunging deeper into her until she was writhing underneath him, hands fisting in the sheets.

"I'm gonna come...are you almost there?"

"Almost," she said, frustrated and trying to get more, one hand grasping at his ass, nails digging into his flesh.

"Come on, Em," he coaxed, thumb going to her clit and rubbing furiously.

"Yes," she cried as she hit her climax, "Oh, God, yes!"

At the last minute, he pulled out, pumping his cock a few times before coming sloppily all over her stomach. He groaned at the sight of his cum drying against her pale stomach. "Beautiful..." he rasped, trailing his fingers through the mess.

Spent, he lay down beside her still panting form. She twisted her head to look at him and smiled coyly. "Thank you," she said softly, reaching over to take his hand. "I needed that." Then, with a kiss to the back of his hand, she sat up to collect her clothes.

He frowned at the sudden move to depart. "Did you want to stay the night?"

Her smile was tight, then. "Thank you, but..."

He nodded with understanding. "But that's not what this was..."

She tightened one hand around his, but said nothing. He didn't say anything either. They just sat there in silence, smiling sadly at each other.


	11. Chapter 11

Ian returned from his business trip two days later to find Emily splayed seductively across their bed in the red lingerie he'd given her as a gift on their last anniversary – the set that never failed to drive him crazy – the first time she'd worn it, he hadn't even bothered to take it off her before fucking her brains out.

"Em?" he said slowly, warily. "What are you doing?"

"I've missed you..." she purred, running a hand over her breast and down her stomach, towards her pussy.

"What's all this for?" he asked, gesturing at the candles she'd lit, obviously having gone to great lengths to set the mood for their reunion.

"Can't a wife just be glad to see her husband?"

"I appreciate the thought, Love, but I'm not really in the mood," he dismissed gently.

Her face fell briefly at the dismissal, but she wasn't about to be deterred. "Well, we can remedy that..." she teased, hand slipping beneath the waistband of her panties, fingers hitting her clit, making her hips buck.

"You don't have to..." he started to protest.

"I want to," she insisted, voice rising an octave, betraying her attempt at being sexy.

He didn't miss the quaver in her voice. "Are you alright?"

"Fine. Fine. I'm fine," she insisted. She cleared her throat. "Come to bed. I want to make you feel good."

He approached the side of the bed trepidatiously. "That's really quite alright," he insisted. He wanted to hold her, lay with her, but she didn't seem content with platonic affection.

Ignoring his protests, she reached to undo his zipper and pull him free from the confines of his boxer briefs. She wrapped her hand around his length, stroking him.

"Em... Em-Emily," he groaned, struggling to keep control. "St-stop. Stop it!" He grabbed her wrist hard when she continued to ignore him.

"No, it's okay," she insisted. "Just let me..." She leaned in, intending to take him in her mouth.

"No, Emily! Just stop!" With a hand on her shoulder, he held her at arm's length.

"Fuck me," she begged, "Just fuck me, please!"

"What has gotten into you!?" he demanded.

Tears raced down her cheeks. "Why don't you want me?" she whispered. She turned away so he wouldn't see her tears. "It's because of Declan, isn't it? You blame me..."

"No, Emily," he said, sounding weary. "Let's just go to bed, we can discuss this in the morning."

"Do you still love me?" she asked, voice so small it was barely there.

"Emily!" he said, shocked.

"Do you?"

"Of course, I love you! I've always loved you and that's not about to change."

"Then why don't you want me?"

He sat down on the edge of the bed and gently turned her to face him. "You're beautiful, sexy, desirable...but I'm just not ready. It feels...wrong, somehow, to enjoy life, pleasure, when Declan is gone."

She sniffled, unable to meet his eyes, tears clinging to her lashes. "Hold me?" she whispered.

"Of course, Love." He pulled her in for a chaste kiss. He climbed into bed behind her, wrapping his arm around her waist. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade, feeling her back shuddering as she sobbed silently.

She could feel his breath against the back of her neck even out into slow warm puffs of air as he descended towards sleep. The warm familiarity of it ordinarily would have pulled her into sleep with him, but that night it failed. "Ian?" she whispered.

"Yes, Love?" he replied, voice gravelly with sleep.

"You know I love you, right?"

"Of course. Almost as much as I love you."

She lay awake for hours, even after he'd fallen asleep, trying to believe that.

* * *

Derek woke up to an insistent knocking on his bedroom door.

With a yawn and a groan, he answered the door, ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. Hopefully the compound  _wasn't_ under attack, though, because he could really use a few more hours' sleep.

"Emily?" he said with a frown. "Why are you..."

She cut him off by attacking his lips with her own. One hand came around the back of his head, her short nails scraping at his scalp, the other fisting in the loose tank top he slept in. Her teeth sank down into his bottom lip, a little harder than was playful.

"Ow!" he yelped into the kiss, before finally managing to push her away from him. "What the hell, Emily!?" he demanded. "What are you doing?"

"Well, if my husband doesn't want me anymore, I figured someone should get good use out of these," she said, undoing the tie that held her robe together, exposing her lace clad breasts. She moved back in for another hungry kiss.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, entirely confused, as he dodged her kiss. He attempted to close her robe again, purposefully diverting his gaze.

"Ian won't touch me. But I know you want to...I can see it in your eyes. You want me."

He frowned. "Emily, have you been drinking?"

"It doesn't matter," she insisted, pressing her body up against his and reaching for his cock.

"Stop, Emily!" he demanded, grabbing her wrists and holding them away from him. "It  _does_ matter. We agreed we wouldn't do this again and I'm not going to take advantage of you while you're drunk and upset."

"I'm not drunk!" she insisted.

"Well, you aren't in your right mind either. You'd regret this in the morning."

"You don't know that!"

"Sleep it off, Emily." He lifted her carefully into his arms, bridal style, and carried her into the guest bedroom.

"But..." she started to protest.

He didn't let her finish, gently lowering her into the bed and covering her with the quilt. "Sleep," he instructed.

"But..." she started again.

He kissed her forehead lightly. "Sleep, Princess."

"Will you stay with me?" she asked, voice small.

He hesitated, but only for a moment. "Just until you fall asleep," he agreed, crawling into bed behind her.


	12. Chapter 12

"Did Ian send you?" Emily asked as Derek soundlessly approached. Her eyes were closed as she tilted her face towards the sun like a blossoming flower, letting the warmth wash over her in a way she hadn't felt in months.

"How did you know it was me?" he asked, impressed. "And no, he didn't. I was just worried about you." He didn't say that when he hadn't been able to find her, his heart had leapt into his throat with the fear that she'd filled her pockets with rocks and walked out into the ocean.

"Afraid I might slit my wrists?" she said grimly.

"I wasn't," he lied, "Though now I'm concerned." He stood beside her, watching her closely – the slow hitching of her breathing, the trembling of her hands, the almost imperceptible shuddering of sobs held under the surface.

"If I were going to kill myself – and don't get me wrong, I've seriously thought about it – I would have done it already. It would be so easy too. There isn't exactly a shortage of guns around here..." She still hadn't opened her eyes to look at him.

"Emily!" he said, appalled. He couldn't tell if she were joking or not, but he didn't want her thinking it either way.

She finally opened her eyes to give him an unamused look. "Relax. I'm not going to do it."

"Still..." he said, letting out a small sigh of relief, "You should talk to someone about that." She waved away the suggestion as if it were a particularly annoying insect.

Then, as if they'd never spoken of suicide at all, she patted the ground beside her until he lowered himself to kneel next to her on the newly planted grass. It was still damp with dew and it soaked through the knees of his jeans until he shivered with the early morning chill. If the cold bothered her, she showed no sign of it. He thought about offering her his jacket, but he didn't want to disturb the moment with idle words.

"It's been three months today," she said softly. "It's the first time I've been to see him."

He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

"It's the first time I've seen his headstone," she added. "I couldn't help Ian choose it – it was just too much. We'd gone from choosing a kindergarten to choosing coffins. I couldn't do it."

"It's beautiful," he said because he felt like he should say  _something_.

It was a very traditional stone: white marble carved with the image of a lamb and the words, 'Declan Oísin Doyle ~ Angels are guarding and they watch o'er thee' followed by the dates.

"He loved that lullabye," she said with a watery smile, referencing the inscription. "It was the only thing that soothed him as a baby. Ian used to sing it to him while he was in my belly and he'd press his little feet against Ian's hand. When he was born and they placed his little squirming body on my chest, I sang it to him so it was the first thing he heard. I didn't know it that last night when I sang him to sleep, but they would also be the last words he ever heard..."

"Oh, Emily..." Derek murmured, though there was nothing else to say.

If she heard him, she didn't respond. With still shaking fingers, she traced lightly over his name carved into the marble, a small loving smile playing about her lips. Then, she pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket and left it at the base of the stone. "It was his favourite," she explained, "But Ian didn't like him to have them. It was our special thing."

Derek said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Together, they departed the cemetery. He pretended he didn't see as she attempted to subtly wipe her tears away.

They walked in silence past the church and through the village before she cleared her throat as if working up the nerve to say something. "About the other night..." she mumbled. She scraped her teeth along her bottom lip nervously.

"You don't have to..." he started to protest to spare them both the awkwardness of the coming conversation.

"No," she insisted, "I do. It was extremely improper of me. I apologize for putting you in an awkward position. You were right to have refused me – I clearly wasn't in my right mind and we both would have regretted it." Her cheeks were pink and she stared deliberately at the ground to avoid his eyes and the judgement she was afraid of seeing there.

"Don't worry about it," he said with a shrug, easily forgiving her.

"No, really," she persisted. "I know what happened between us...happened. But it was something that we shouldn't have done. It was a one time mistake and to repeat it would just be foolish. So, thank you for being in your right mind."

"Think nothing of it."

She smiled at him, but it was tight, forced.

"You should go to a support group," he said suddenly, though he'd been thinking it for some time.

She laughed, a little hysterically. "I don't think so."

"Really," he said, nudging her with his elbow. "You need friends, someone who understands your loss, what you're going through. Someone you can talk to, who has experienced the same things and can give you advice."

"You understand..." she pointed out quietly.

He sighed heavily. "I think the less time we spend together, the better. Like you said, we don't want Ian to suspect impropriety." He didn't want to say it, but he knew it was better that he did.

She nodded slowly, gaze unfocused and distant, mind a million miles away. "You're right. It's better this way."

He nodded and she didn't see the sadness in his eyes. He didn't say it was because he liked her, perhaps too much. He didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.


End file.
